The Labyrinth
by Taywen
Summary: "Oh, District Six was inspiring," the escort gushes. "Why, they had nearly as much screen time as those beautiful children from District One. I really think Six has a chance this year!" "Let's not get carried away," Snape says. / Harry participates in the 71st Hunger Games. Follows "Reaping Day in District Six".


Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series does not in any way belong to me, it's the property of JKR, etc. Likewise, the Hunger Games series is the property of Suzanne Collins, etc.

Picks up immediately after the events of _Reaping Day in District Six_.

Will fill the free space on my trope bingo card, which I've decided will be 'au: fusion'. :D

* * *

The Labyrinth

* * *

The Dursleys don't come to say goodbye. Harry hadn't really been expecting them to, but it's still... disappointing? Certainly, if he had been reaped then he wouldn't think they'd show up, but he _has_ just saved their beloved son's life. Surely that counts for something. He had no obligation to do it.

He doesn't have any friends, so he passes the hour alone, listening to the tearful goodbyes the next room over.

"At least," he hears, barely muffled by the thin wall, "at least that little runt doesn't stand a chance."

Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best friend. Come to think of it, there had been a certain resemblance between his fellow tribute and the rat faced boy. Harry's partner must be Piers' sister.

"Piers!" his mother scolds.

Harry rolls his eyes. She doesn't really mean it.

So, two kids from relatively affluent families got reaped this year. That's unusual. Probably doesn't mean anything, but it's weird anyway.

* * *

Harry stares when the two mentors enter the dining car. Hagrid had been a given - he always mentors, mainly because he's the only one competent _and_ caring enough to try again, year after year - but the second mentor is unexpected.

Severus Snape is the last victor Six has seen. He won eighteen years ago, at the age of seventeen. Harry cannot recall Snape mentoring anyone in the ten years he can remember watching the Hunger Games.

"I thought Smith was mentoring," the girl says, not quite a question.

"You thought wrong," Snape says sharply.

"Severus and Melinda switched," Hagrid says at the same time, earning himself a glare from Snape.

"Oh, good, everyone's here," the escort says brightly, bustling in. "Well, let's sit down. We're leaving momentarily!"

Snape scoffs and goes to the sideboard, rummaging around until he comes up with a bottle of whiskey.

"It's a bit early for that," Hagrid says.

Snape ignores him and drinks directly from the bottle. He all but collapses into the chair at the head of the table when the train sets into motion.

Harry sits down at the other end, so he can look out the window. Hagrid settles himself awkwardly on Harry's left, leaving Piers' sister and the escort to take the two seats on Harry's right, their backs to the window.

"So, Harry," the escort says excitedly. "I don't think Six has had a volunteer since-"

"-ever," Snape says flatly. He's glaring down at the bottle when Harry glances at him.

"Yes! It's new, it's fresh, I'm sure _everyone_ will be buzzing about it!"

"Great," Harry says.

"I think I can sell this," the escort continues. "So, why _did_ you volunteer?"

This isn't the Games yet, not really. Train rides are never televised. There's probably a lot going on behind the scenes that Harry has no idea of, but he thinks he can pull this off.

"Dudley's my cousin. I've lived with my aunt and uncle for as long as I can remember. They've never really wanted me, and I think if I'd gone back and Dudley'd come here to die, they would've made my life even more of a hell than it was already."

The escort's smile is fixed and blank; he doesn't seem to know what to say.

"Harry," Hagrid says, strained. "That can't be... I knew your parents, you can't be saying that-"

Harry looks at him in surprise. He knows virtually nothing about his parents, since the only people he can ask are the Dursleys, who are more or less lying liars who lie. "You knew them? What were they like?" he asks, genuine curiosity entering his voice as he leans forward.

"So, you'll be my mentor, then?" Piers' sister asks at the same time, turning to Snape.

"No," Snape says.

"Severus, I'm mentoring Harry," Hagrid protests.

"It's fine," Harry says, subsiding. He pushes away his brief excitement - he doesn't want to discuss his parents in front of all these people. And Piers' sister is an unknown quantity. Several years older than her brother, she doesn't have anything to do with Harry, but if she believes what Dudley and Piers say about him... Well, what does it matter? One of them has to die for the other to come home anyway. "I probably have less chances to win than Polkiss. You should mentor her, Hagrid."

He glances at Polkiss to gauge her reaction, but ends up meeting Severus' dark gaze instead. Framed by long, greasy black hair, it should be ridiculous rather than threatening, but Harry feels a shiver of apprehension anyway. He quickly looks away.

Lunch is brought out by white clad Avoxes a few moments later, and the escort and Hagrid mostly carry the conversation afterward.

Harry eats as much as he can stand. It's not as if the Dursleys starve him - it would be strange if they took out tesserae and had a starving ward, especially since they're a relatively affluent family; if there's one thing they hate almost as much as Harry, it's losing face - but he seldom eats as much as he'd like. He keeps his eyes on his plate, mulling over what was said.

Melinda Smith - a morphling - was supposed to mentor, but between the reaping and the train ride, she and Severus Snape switched. Why? Snape never mentors. Not only is he changing his habits, but Snape wants to mentor _Harry_. Or at least, he doesn't want to mentor Piers' sister, but he must've switched for a reason, so...

It makes no sense, but Harry cannot see any other conclusions to draw.

* * *

They barely arrive in the Capitol before they're bustled off to the Training Centre.

"You're all bruised," one of his prep team gasps when Harry strips out of Dudley's hand me downs.

Harry shrugs. "My cousin pushes me around."

"That fat boy you volunteered for?" the sole woman asks, wrinkling her nose. "But you're so cute! How could he?"

Harry looks at her blankly.

"Your eyes are a stunning shade of green," the first man offers. "And you're not bad to look at."

Harry blinks twice. He hadn't expected this. Good looks can bring in sponsors. Weaker, prettier Careers, even attractive tributes from higher Districts have won by the grace of timely sponsor gifts in the past.

But he'd never thought about himself in that context. He's the spitting image of his good-for-nothing father, and that's all anyone's ever said to him on the matter.

"Thanks," he says, lowering his eyes, and the prep work continues.

* * *

"I'm Tonks, your stylist," the young woman says, after all of Harry's hair - except his eyebrows and the mess atop his head - has been removed and he's been scrubbed with at least five different products. The prep team had said something about purifying and exfoliating but Harry had tuned it out like everything else.

She doesn't look that much older than Harry. He doubts she's more than twenty. Like all Capitol citizens, her hair is dyed an impossible shade, though he can't see any other obvious modifications. What makeup she is wearing is understated.

"Tonks?" Harry echoes, his patience worn thin enough by the prep team's inane chatter that he doesn't filter his thoughts. Her name is so...mundane. Six's escort and his prep team, though he can't remember their exact names, all had grandiose names.

"It's a nickname. My real name's Nymphadora," she explains, grimacing.

Harry grins, charmed in spite of himself. "Harry. Nice to meet you, Tonks."

"Likewise," Tonks says. Her gaze sweeps over him, detached and analytical. He's wearing a thin robe, but it's made for someone a little larger; the sleeves sag past his wrists and the front gapes open. "What is that bruise from?" She points at his chest, a dark welt below his collarbone.

"I don't know," Harry says, shrugging. "My cousin. I don't remember the exact circumstances."

Tonks' lips thin. "Themistia said you told them your cousin pushed you around."

"He did," Harry agrees after a moment. Themistia must be the woman on his prep team.

Tonks shakes her head, the easygoing expression from before returning. "Well, you must be wondering about your costume."

"Was I ever," Harry says.

Tonks laughs. "It's not so bad. It'll look great on you."

"It can't be worse than last year's," Harry says agreeably.

"You're lucky this is my first year as Six's stylist," Tonks says, grinning at him.

Harry finds himself grinning back.

* * *

The costume is all smooth lines in silver and black. It's supposedly modelled after the bullet trains, and so ostensibly represents Six's industry, transportation.

Harry stares at himself in the mirror. He has been transformed into an alien, otherworldly thing. Rather than attempt to tame his unruly black hair, Tonks has styled it into an artful mess, dusted in silver. His green eyes are stark against the black lining them and they seem unusually large in his face. She's taken the thinness of his face and made it sharp, emphasizing his cheekbones and distracting from his underfed look.

"What do you think!?" Tonks demands, expectant.

"It's brilliant," Harry says; he's smiling, small but genuine. It's startling to see in his reflection.

Tonks smiles back, satisfied. "Just do that thousand year stare you gave the cameras after you volunteered."

* * *

Harry wouldn't say the crowd loved him, exactly, but he'd seen Six's chariot on the screens almost as often as the Careers'. Of course, that could've been Polkiss' doing; she wore basically the same costume as him, after all.

"You both looked wonderful," Hagrid says, clapping the pair of them on the shoulder when they emerge from the venue. Harry staggers, as does Polkiss.

"Thanks," he says, rubbing his shoulder gingerly. "Where's Snape?" Only the escort and Hagrid are waiting.

"Back at the Training Centre, getting a head start on the alcohol I imagine," the escort sniffs.

"Snape isn't a fan of this sort of thing," Hagrid says, leading them to the waiting car.

Polkiss gives him a look, cool but not overtly hostile; assessing. Harry holds it for a moment then looks away.

* * *

The entire sixth floor of the Training Centre is reserved for District Six's tributes and mentors.

It's not like the Dursleys were poor. Vernon managed one of the main warehouses, a lucrative job that allowed Petunia to stay at home and care for Dudley. Yet Harry's room in the Training Centre is larger than the main living area of the Dursleys' house.

"Mentors get a whole suite," the escort says, but the tour of the sixth floor ends with the tributes' rooms.

"Nice," Polkiss says. She's looking around hungrily, and Harry wonders if she thinks she has a chance to win.

Everyone has a chance to win, but only one kid will come back. Harry doesn't think something as petty as wanting the luxury of the Capitol will be enough to carry her through. They haven't even really seen the competition yet, apart from watching the reaping and brief moments observing them as they waited for their turn at the chariot ride.

The tributes from One, Two and Four were obviously trained. They'd all volunteered, and were within the sixteen to eighteen range. The other tributes were more difficult to pin down; no one expects to be reaped, and just because someone's breaking down onstage doesn't mean they'll be a weakling in the arena.

Harry's reserving his judgement for now.

"Oh, is it done already?" Snape drawls, barely looking up when they enter the dining area. As the escort had predicted, he's drinking.

"Done your third bottle already," the escort says disapprovingly, flicking his fingers at a hovering Avox. The woman swiftly clears the table of Snape's empty bottles.

Snape sighs. "It must be nearly dinnertime if you're back."

"That's right," Hagrid says.

"And how was the chariot ride?" It's pure sarcasm, but the escort takes the question at face value anyway.

"Oh, District Six was _inspiring_," he gushes. "Why, they had nearly as much screen time as those beautiful children from District One."

Snape arches an eyebrow. "Did they."

"I really think Six has a chance this year," the escort continues enthusiastically.

"Let's not get carried away," Snape says.

Hagrid coughs. "That's right. Popularity is important but there's other things to consider."

"Oh, of course. But they're hardly starving like some of the other tributes." He says it disdainfully, as if that's something people in the Districts have any control over.

Snape laughs, a sharp, bitter sound.

Harry wanders into the sitting area, separated from the dining room by a half wall. If he listens for too long, he'll only get angry; he wants to stay on the escort's good side. That might involve learning his name at some point; Harry's not really looking forward to it.

"Do you have any skills?" the escort asks Polkiss, oblivious as always.

Harry listens to the conversation with half an ear, idly flipping through the channels on the television. It's astonishing what kind of crap gets broadcast in the Capitol: Dudley would probably love the overdramatic action films, but they seem contrived to Harry. There's only one station in District Six and it broadcasts the Hunger Games, recaps of past Hunger Games, promotions for the future Hunger Games, the Victory Tour or other Capitol propaganda (which usually involves the Hunger Games in some way).

"Dinner's here, Harry," Hagrid calls, drawing Harry from the recap of last year's game: Marcus Flint, from District 2, had won.

"What's the point of watching past Games?" Polkiss demands, annoyed, when Harry sits down across from her. Tonks and Polkiss' stylist are there too.

Harry shrugs. "You never know what might be useful." He helps himself to some pasta.

* * *

"Private coaching sessions after dinner," Snape says, towards the end of the meal.

"You don't think they should be coached together-"

"No," Snape says curtly, cutting Hagrid off.

"That's fine with me," Polkiss says.

Tonks is frowning, but she doesn't say anything; the escort and Polkiss' stylist don't seem to care either way.

Harry doesn't want anything to do with Polkiss. Maybe her brother is a brat, which probably has nothing to do with her, but he doesn't want to get to know her or anything - what good would it do, to find out that she's a decent person when she'll have to die for him to win?

And he wants to figure Snape out, away from prying eyes.

"Done, boy?" Snape demands, bringing Harry out of his thoughts. His bowl is scraped clean, all traces of the delicious dessert - ice cream with fresh fruit, a delicacy that he'd never gotten back in Six - gone.

"Yes, sir."

Something flashes in Snape's eyes at the form of address, though Harry had kept any sarcasm out of his voice. He jerks his head, indicating the hallway leading to the bedrooms, then gets up and stalks away.

Harry grabs the last treacle tart before following.

* * *

Snape leads Harry to a door past the tributes' rooms. He assumes it's Snape's mentor suite.

"Sit," Snape says curtly, making it more of an order than an offer.

Harry sits in the loveseat, taking the room in briefly. It's extravagant but impersonal, just like his own room. There are three doors, the one he just entered and two others; he assumes they lead to the bathroom and bedroom. This one is more of a sitting area, with a fireplace and various furniture.

"Tonks will be representing the Capitol audience," Snape says, settling into the armchair across from him; Harry starts when she sits down beside him. He hadn't heard her following them.

Tonks smiles at him, though it looks a bit strained.

Snape studies Harry in silence for several moments, though he doesn't meet Harry's gaze.

"What you said on the train, about the Dursleys," Snape finally says. "Was it true?"

"Yeah," Harry says.

Snape's lips compress into a thin line and he glances at the empty fireplace.

"What are you talking about?" Tonks asks.

"Sell it to her," Snape orders without looking up.

Harry looks at Tonks, who seems more confused by the cryptic conversation than anything. He likes her the best of the people he's met so far, and she seems to be on his side.

"Well," Harry says, glancing down at his lap. He curls his fingers together. "You know how I said my cousin pushed me around... It's not like he was the only one. My aunt and uncle never touched me, ever; not a hug, or a pat on the head... They just made me do everything. Cook meals, clean the house, tend the garden, take out tesserae we didn't even need. They knew that Dudley pushed me around and did nothing; they... they even encouraged him."

He says it without bitterness, allowing his breath to hitch a few times.

"So when Dudley got reaped, I knew I had to volunteer or they'd make my life even more miserable."

"Oh, Harry," Tonks breathes, and enfolds him in a tight - but not unbearable - hug.

He blinks in surprise and relaxes after a moment. When he glances at Snape over Tonks' shoulder, there's something like approval there.

"All right, that's enough," Snape says. "Let him breath."

Tonks releases him with a murmured apology and Harry sits back, feeling cold.

"So. Strategy. You are not an unskilled liar."

"I was telling the truth," Harry says.

Snape smiles; it isn't a very nice smile. "You were playing it up. You're not hurt by their treatment of you - well, not any longer, in any case - you're _angry_. But the Capitol has seen anger before. They don't like the ones who play up their sob stories, but you're different. It's not the Capitol's deprivation that's behind your situation, it's your guardians'." Snape looks at Tonks. "Do you disagree?"

Tonks taps a finger to her lower lip; Harry notices that her fingernails are painted to complement her bright hair. "That's true," she says slowly. "The Capitol doesn't like being reminded that they're the ones behind the starving Districts. You would make a good underdog." Her eyes slide to him. "No offense," she adds.

Harry shrugs, unbothered. "I was always going to be the underdog."

"Watch Polkiss," Snape says. "You can't trust her."

Harry doesn't roll his eyes, even though that was _obvious_. "So I know how to get sponsors, but what about training?"

"Any practical skills?" Snape asks. "Your father was an accomplished thief."

Harry stiffens. "You knew my father? Did you know my mother too? Will you tell me about them?" He leans forward intently.

"I knew your mother better than your father," Snape says. "But I will not speak of either of them. Focus, boy."

"Severus," Tonks protests.

Snape glares at her and she falls silent.

Harry narrows his eyes and sits back. "I guess the Dursleys weren't lying when they said I take after my father," Harry says, deciding to drop it for now. "I'm good at stealing too. Hiding, running, climbing - all from getting away from Dudley."

Snape nods thoughtfully. "Knives, then. You're too scrawny to manage something larger. A distance weapon would be better, but they're rather rare in the Games and without prior training it would be difficult."

"If I go for knives during training, people will know," Harry says.

"I'll arrange something here, in the evenings," Snape says. "I am not unskilled with knives myself."

"That's not how you won your Games," Harry says, remembering. They don't broadcast Snape's Games that frequently - Six hasn't won since, so there's no need to rehash past glory, and the 53rd Games were hardly infamous - but Snape didn't kill the last tributes in that manner.

Snape shrugs. "It's how I survived long enough to win."

"So what should I do in the meantime? During the actual training?"

"Do you have a good memory?"

Harry nods.

"Memorize edible plants first thing, then how to start a fire, build a makeshift shelter, knot tying. The latter is particularly useful for traps, but if you haven't got the dexterity for it, don't waste your time," Snape instructs.

"District Six has a disadvantage there," Tonks murmurs. "Your District is the most urbanized. You don't come into the arena with any survival skills. Or practical skills from your industry."

"Thanks," Harry says sarcastically, unable to stop himself. Like he hadn't already come to that conclusion. "... Sorry," he adds, when Tonks looks hurt.

"You need to control your temper," Snape adds. "Let the Careers push you around if it comes to that. Don't draw their attention. We'll discuss how to act around Capitol citizens further before the interviews." He glances at the clock on the wall. "Get to bed. Training starts early tomorrow."

* * *

Harry goes down with Polkiss the next morning after the heartiest breakfast he's ever eaten.

The training area takes up the entire basement, with a few rooms set aside for simulations or specialized skills - there's a swimming pool, among other things.

The Careers are already there, standing in their District pairs and apparently sizing each other up at one of the weapons stations. A few other tributes are present as well, dispersed among the other stations.

"Later," Polkiss sneers unnecessarily, and goes off to wherever. Harry doesn't care enough to find out.

He stays at the wall beside the elevator, going over the various stations. Swimming might be useful - he'll have to ask Snape if they usually have a pool for training. There's always water in some form in the Games, though swimming isn't usually a necessity; most tributes don't have the opportunity to learn to swim and watching a bunch of kids drown doesn't make for a great show.

The elevator opens again, and loud laughter spills out. A girl hurries out, followed by a laughing boy: District Twelve's tributes, judging by the 12 emblazoned on the backs of their shirts.

Everyone turns to look, but the boy ignores them and saunters over to camouflage station, still chuckling to himself. The girl's shoulders hunch up to her ears; clearly she doesn't like the attention.

Harry decides to start with edible plants; if it happens to be close to 12-boy's station, well that's just a coincidence.

* * *

He stays at the edible plants station for an hour, then goes to the fire building station. Several younger tributes are there too, most of them from the higher Districts. The instructor pairs Harry up with the girl from Eight; they don't introduce themselves and only exchange enough words to help each other successfully build a fire.

Lunch is spent alone. Some of the tributes stick with their District partners, but most of them eat on their own. The Careers have apparently decided to form the usual pack, because they're all sitting at the same table and seem to be getting along.

Harry's just settling in at the shelter building station when he hears 12-boy.

"Reckon it'll be nice, having my own place to be killed in," the boy says idly, not caring to keep his voice down. He hunkers down beside Harry and starts building his own shelter; despite his words, he's much better at it than Harry is.

"No, look, do it like this," the boy says, taking a large piece of bark out of Harry's hand and setting up against the other two sides Harry had managed to get to stand up. "I'm Fred, by the way." He pauses, then a rueful smile crosses his face. "Fred Weasley."

"Harry Potter," he says, looking at the shelter.

"The volunteer," Fred drawls, but his gaze is searching.

Harry smiles weakly, and doesn't say more than 'yeah' and 'thanks' as Fred coaches him through building a semi-competent shelter.

* * *

He heads to the knife station next. A few of the Careers look at him suspiciously, but for the most part they're more interested in monopolizing the other weapons stations.

The trainer shows Harry how to properly hold a knife, demonstrates a few basic moves, then lets Harry try them himself.

He fumbles the knife, crying out when the thankfully blunt edge hits his forearm.

The Careers laugh, shaking their heads, and go back to their training.

"Maybe I shouldn't," Harry says, pressing the knife back into the trainer's hand and going to the knot-tying station and practices different knots until his fingers start to hurt.

He finishes up with the edible plants again - he identifies most of them correctly, and heads back to the sixth floor feeling satisfied.

* * *

Snape frowns when Harry tells him about his display of incompetence at the knife station, but says nothing on the matter.

"A swimming pool," Snape says, his frown lessening but not entirely disappearing after Harry tells him about the pool. "I don't recall... Try it tomorrow, anyway. Treading water is simple enough to learn."

He proceeds to show Harry basic strategies for escaping the grip of a larger person - so, basically every other tribute - then makes Harry practice the same moves with the knife over and over again.

Tonks shows up sometime later and Harry is allowed to flop onto the loveseat beside her.

The three of them decide upon the story that Harry is going to go with - mostly truth, except for the part where Harry feels so terribly hurt about it - and then Snape sends him off to bed again.

* * *

"That climbing thing looks like it could be fun," Fred remarks, after a companionable, quiet hour at the edible plants station. It doesn't escape Harry's notice that Fred sweeps the tests with ease, despite not visiting the station yesterday.

"We could try it," Harry says, doubtfully.

Fred grins. "That's the spirit. Doesn't hurt to try everything once. Right?" He addresses this to the girl from yesterday, District Eight's female tribute, who had silently joined them about fifteen minutes ago.

The girl nods hesitantly.

"I'm Fred, this is Harry," he adds, leading them to the climbing course.

"Susan," she murmurs.

Fred glances at her. "Susan Bones, right? Niece of Amelia Bones, the victor."

Susan looks up in surprise, though her gaze is quickly drawn back to her feet. "That's right."

"What are the odds?" Fred muses as they approach the instructor. "Morning," he adds, flashing a smile at the woman.

Susan looks at Harry pleadingly, like she somehow expects him to curb Fred's recklessness. He shrugs in return; Fred doesn't seem to care what he says, and Harry doesn't think anything he can do will convince the older boy to stop.

The instructor sets them up on the easiest portion of the course, then stands back to supervise their progress.

* * *

Susan sits with her District partner at lunch; Harry finds himself blinking in surprise when Fred sits down at the same table.

"Food's not bad," Fred comments between mouthfuls. "Not as good as what my mum cooks, when we've the money."

He's pretty thin, more than a growth spurt would typically cause, Harry thinks. They must not have the money a lot.

"I cooked most of the meals back home, apart from the fancy dinners," Harry murmurs; no one else is close enough to eavesdrop.

"Doesn't seem like you ate them," Fred observes, though his voice is lower as well, not the carrying tone he uses to make his cutting observations.

Harry shrugs.

"Most of it went to that fat boy you volunteered for, huh?" Fred says.

"Yeah."

Fred shakes his head, obviously disgusted, but lets the topic drop. "I've got six siblings back in Twelve," he says, grinning a bit at Harry's startled look. Six seems... ill-advised, especially if they're poor.

But then, the vast majority of the District people falls into that category.

"Three older brothers, past reaping age. A twin, George..." Fred trails off, distracted, but his attention returns to Harry after a few moments. "Brother about your age, Ron. I think you'd get along. And the youngest, Ginny." Fred looks sad after that - probably thinking about how he's likely never going to see them again.

"I've got my fat cousin, Dudley," Harry offers.

Fred looks startled, then starts laughing.

Harry ducks his head, biting the inside of his lip to hide his answering grin, when the rest of the tributes turn to look at them.

* * *

Fred wanders off to torment some other hapless tributes, though most of them ignore his overtures. The assessing looks the Careers have been sending the redheaded boy have not gone unnoticed, it seems.

As if staying away from one of the stronger non-volunteers is going to increase their chances of survival. Right. The ones who try not to draw attention to themselves and hope that luck or the arena or the Gamemakers will take care of the rest are unrealistic.

Someone like that hasn't won in years. Gamemaker events have, without fail, ousted those sorts of tributes before the final four for almost as long as Harry can remember.

Harry works on his knot-tying again. He's gotten a basic snare down and he's making decent progress on a human trap if the instructor's mild compliments are anything to go by.

There are two other tributes that Harry doesn't recognize in the pool when he ventures to it, but the pool is large enough that they're nowhere near each other. There are two supervisors, one in the water and one observing from the poolside. She hands Harry a pair of trunks.

He changes quickly in the stalls set aside for that purpose and slips into the water on the shallow end.

"Have you ever swum before?" the supervisor in the water asks, swimming over to him.

"No," Harry says.

"What are those bruises from?" the man asks, frowning.

"Oh, my cousin," Harry mutters, averting his eyes. They don't hurt unless Harry presses against them, and he's so used to seeing them on his own body that he barely notices anymore. "Um, can you teach me how to tread water? My mentor said that's the easiest..."

The man looks thoughtful, but he talks Harry through it, then demonstrates, and before long Harry's managing to keep his head above water.

"Not bad," the supervisor says.

The Careers enter the pool then, giving the other two tributes the excuse to leave. Harry follows suit, towelling himself dry and changing quickly.

"About time," the boy from District Four jeers when Harry steps out of the stall. He takes a step toward Harry, who cringes.

"Sorry," he mutters, looking down at his feet.

"You should be-"

"Seriously?" the boy from One demands. "He was all bruised, suggesting abuse. Way to victimize the victim, Pucey."

"Do you _want_ to learn how to swim or not-"

Harry scurries away before he can hear more.

* * *

Snape excuses himself from the table early, before dessert arrives - not that he's ever eaten it, or much of the rest of the meals, for that matter - and tells Harry to come to his suite after he's done.

"What do you do in there?" Polkiss demands in a hiss; the rest of the table is involved in a conversation about some Capitol party.

Harry blinks. "Snape mentors me," he says vaguely.

"About what," Polkiss snaps, drawing the attention of the rest of the table.

"Hey," Hagrid says awkwardly. "That's between Harry and Severus, Polkiss."

"Do you even know my name?!" she screeches. "Potter and that- that _giant bat_ of a man go off and do who knows what and all you do is make me watch past Games and _talk_, like that's going to help me-"

"Rosaline," Harry says, suddenly remembering. "Your given name is Rosaline."

Polkiss gives him a look of pure loathing and stalks off to her room.

In the silence that follows, Harry calmly finishes off the last of his chocolate cake and stands. "See you later, Tonks," he says.

* * *

Snape ambushes him the moment Harry shuts the door, and he hesitates for a mere second before launching into the manoeuvres that Snape had drilled into him the night before.

"Acceptable," Snape grunts, stepping away from him.

"I should've known something was up when you left early," Harry mutters, rubbing the old bruise just below his collarbone.

Snape scowls when he sees the motion and stalks over to the door. He barks some orders at the waiting Avox then basically slams the door.

"You should have told me about your injuries," Snape says, calmer.

"They're not so bad," Harry says. "I barely notice them."

This does not seem to appease Snape. "Sit," he orders curtly, taking his armchair again.

Harry sits. "Dudley broke my arm once. Only once, mind you. The teachers noticed and took me to the clinic - they knew my uncle could afford it." He smirks a bit at the memory; Vernon had yelled at Dudley for that, told him not to do lasting damage again.

Snape still looks furious. "We will begin with your story for the interview. Recount it to me."

He makes Harry recite the thing twice, then tells him to put more emotion into it. Harry's pretty annoyed himself by the time when the Avox returns fifteen minutes later with an unassuming white case.

Snape takes it with a mutter of thanks and removes a tube of ointment. "Apply this to your bruises tonight before you go to bed. It will heal any lingering aches."

Harry blinks, but takes the tube and tucks it into his pocket.

Snape produces the knife again, and Harry begins his drilling.

They go over his story _again_ when Tonks shows up, and Snape sends him off to bed a bit earlier, so he'll have time to apply the ointment.

* * *

Snape shakes him awake, and narrowly avoids a fist to the face as Harry flails into consciousness.

"Calm yourself, boy," Snape orders. "We need to discuss your strategy for your private session with the Gamemakers."

Harry blinks up at his blurred face stupidly, then fumbles for his glasses. "What time is it?"

Snape jerks his head impatiently. "Do you think you'll have the luxury of sleeping in when you're in the arena?"

"If someone happens across me sleeping I imagine I just won't wake up," Harry says scathingly, but rolls out of bed and stumbles over to the little sitting area.

"That is precisely the sort of attitude you do not need," Snape says.

"Why couldn't we have discussed this yesterday," Harry mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.

"You want a decent non-Career score," Snape says, ignoring him. "Four or five should do. Five might be pushing it. Don't show off your knife skills, such as they are. Knives are common enough in the arena as it is."

"No knives," Harry agrees around a jaw-cracking yawn.

"You've been memorizing the edible plants?"

Harry nods.

"Good. Pass that test as quickly as possible. Rope trap? Rig something with that; there should be plenty of training dummies to use it on. You said you were good at climbing; show off as much as you can there, but don't bite off more than you can chew."

Harry nods.

"What is your strategy for the private session?"

Harry dutifully repeats it back to him.

Snape nods. "Very well. Breakfast is in half an hour. Don't be late." He sweeps out of the room without another word.

Harry looks longingly at his bed, then goes to take a shower.

* * *

The morning is subdued. Harry decides to try the camouflage station, though he finds that he's pretty useless at it. Fred's already there and tries to help him, but Harry gives up and decides to practice the knot tying again.

"Don't you know anything?!" a masculine voice shouts, cracking, just as Harry finishes his second snare.

Susan and her District partner are at one of the weapons stations, and he's waving a blunted knife around as he shouts at her.

"Your aunt was a victor and she didn't tell you anything?! What, did she think you wouldn't get reaped-"

"That's enough!" the instructor snaps, stepping between Susan and the boy. "Put that down. Walk it off."

Susan hurries to the fire making station and the boy stalks off.

Harry kneels down beside her, gently taking the stick out of her trembling hands. She's crying silently, her shoulders shaking.

"Here, like this," he says, putting the kindling at the bottom and building the rest quickly. He presses the flint and tinder into her hands. "Now, strike it."

Susan fumbles it on her first try.

"I can't- I'm useless-"

"Try it again, except this time imagine you're scraping his face against a suitably hard surface," Harry says, pretending not to hear.

Susan gives him a startled look.

"Hard and rough. Sandpaper. Broken glass," Harry says encouragingly.

Susan gives a wet, bitter laugh and strikes them together. The spark catches and soon they're sitting in front of a nice, respectable fire.

"Ah, toasty," Fred says, plopping down beside them. "Don't worry too much about that prick, Susan."

"This is our fire," Harry says. "Go away."

Susan laughs again, soft but genuine. Fred grins.

* * *

"So, anyone want to bet on our scores?" Fred drawls, his voice carrying easily across the quiet cafeteria. Susan is sitting with them now; her partner is sulking in a corner, alone.

"We're going to kill you," the boy from Two says.

Fred raises his eyebrows. "Like you weren't going to do that anyway?"

"A ten for me," the girl from One says sweetly, her smile a deadly promise.

Her partner sighs. "That's crass, Delacour."

She smirks at him. "A ten for dear Diggory as well," she coos, patting his arm. "And Krum." She nods to the boy from Two, counting off on her fingers. "Nine for his partner. Eights for Four." The snub, not even using their names, is obvious. They look furious but don't say anything, which only serves to confirm her words.

Of course, just because they're hardly threats to _Delacour_ doesn't mean Harry can disregard them.

"Well," Fred says. "Those kinds of scores were more or less set for your little clique."

"Five or six for you," Delacour continues, as if he hadn't spoken. "You're on the younger side, but you're smart, jokes aside." Her gaze slides to Harry, sitting at the table with Fred. "Three, _maybe _four for him."

Harry looks down, hunching his shoulders. Inwardly, he's glad. They think he's weak. They'll underestimate him.

"Two or three for Bones Jr.," Delacour adds.

"Delacour," Diggory admonishes. "You don't have to rub it in."

Harry sees Susan's knuckles go white around her cutlery, and though her face is still blotchy from her earlier tears, her jaw is clenched when he glances at her.

"Eleven for Krum, tens for you two," Fred counters, grinning; but his eyes are hard.

"Stop it, Fred!" Harry hisses.

"And if I'm right, you let me go on the first day," Fred adds, cocky.

"No way," the boy from Four - Pucey? - protests. "That's fucking ridiculous!"

"If you're right," Delacour says, her eyes glittering, "then yes, we won't attack you. We'll defend ourselves if you attack us first."

"And if I'm wrong you'll rip me to shreds during the bloodbath," Fred agrees easily.

"Naturally," Diggory says, eyeing Fred thoughtfully.

"We were going to do that anyway," Krum adds, parroting Fred's words back with a toothy grin.

* * *

Even Fred is hard pressed to fake cheer in the tense atmosphere before their private sessions with the Gamemakers.

Harry ignores him, staring down at his hands. They're shaking slightly; with an effort, he stills them. He wipes them on his pants once, trying to stop the clammy feeling. It's stupid to be nervous. Six isn't that long after Four; some of the Gamemakers will still be paying attention, surely. Harry just needs to get an average score - four, maybe five - and he'll be set.

Hopefully.

The number of waiting tributes dwindles, then the Avox attendant is beckoning at Harry.

"Hey," Fred catches his wrist when Harry walks past and pulls him down to whisper in his ear, "meet me on the roof tonight."

Harry jerks away, eyes wide.

"Good luck!" Fred adds for the benefit of the rest of the room, grinning.

"Thanks..." Harry smiles weakly and walks into the room.

He sweeps the edible plants test, rigs a rope trap to snare one of the training dummies, sets it on fire. He swarms up the most difficult section of the climbing area, then returns to the centre of the room, bows, and is dismissed.

Most of them were watching, he thinks.

* * *

Incredibly, the three strongest Careers' scores come up exactly as Fred predicted.

"That Weasley is crazy," Polkiss mutters, glancing at Harry suspiciously.

He shrugs as District Three's scores are announced: three and four. "He won't leave me alone," he says, plaintive.

Polkiss scoffs and returns her attention to the screen. The Fours both earn relatively unremarkable eights, as Delacour had predicted.

The boy from Five earns a one; even Polkiss winces. The girl gets a modest four.

Harry hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, but as he exhales a weight he hadn't even noticed is lifted from his shoulders when his five is announced.

"Congratulations, Harry!" Hagrid cries. "That's wonderful."

"A decent score for this sort of District," the escort agrees, smiling.

Snape snorts, but doesn't contribute beyond that.

Polkiss scores a three.

"Score isn't everything, dear," the escort assures her, patting her arm. Harry's a bit surprised that the escort is the one who remembers tact.

"You've still got the interviews," Harry adds. "I remember you making those speeches in school... I could never stand up in front of all those people."

Polkiss exhales raggedly and runs out of the room.

"Oh, dear," Hagrid says.

The rest of the scores pass unremarkably, with Susan getting a four and Fred earning the expected six.

* * *

"Do you want that boy to leave you alone?" Snape asks, when they're sequestered in his suite again before dinner.

"Who- oh, Fred? No, I think he can be trusted, as much as anyone can be," Harry says.

Snape looks thoughtful, but he concedes the point with a nod.

"What was Polkiss talking about earlier?" Tonks asks.

"Fred made a bet with the Careers. He guessed what scores Diggory, Delacour and Krum would receive. Since he's right, they said they'll let him go on the first day," Harry explains.

"Informal," Snape comments. "Such a verbal, nonbinding agreement is worth nothing. Weasley's is the highest score, besides theirs."

Harry nods slowly. "He wants to meet on the roof after dinner."

"It might be useful to attend," Snape allows. "Don't stay too long."

* * *

There's a garden on the roof - somehow, Harry hadn't expected that. It's windier than he thought it would be too.

"Oi, over here," Fred says, waving. He's sitting on a bench secluded by some leafy, flowered thing. (Edible but of no real nutritional value, Harry notes.)

"Cozy," Harry says as he sits down, unable to stop himself. Fred laughs.

"Knew you had a sense of humour. No, no, don't worry," Fred quickly adds, sobering. "I won't tell anyone."

"Let's hope no one overhears," Harry says.

"Scouted the place before you got here, we're alone," Fred says, stretching.

"So why'd you want to meet?" Harry asks, after several moments of silence.

"They said they'd let me go if I got it right, so I was wondering what I should grab at the Cornucopia," Fred says.

Harry blinks, thrown. Certainly, he and Fred have been friendly the past three days, but that means nothing in the arena - or so he'd thought. "My mentor says you can't trust them."

"Yeah, probably not," Fred sighs.

"But mention the bet in the interview," Harry says. "You're last so it should stick in people's minds. It'll look bad for them if they go back on it later. Um, if you decide to go through with it, I'd totally understand if you don't want to."

"Good idea," Fred says. "What's life without a little risk, huh? So, what do you want?"

"A knife," Harry says.

Fred looks at him then, really looks at him, unsmiling. Harry has to consciously repress the urge to fidget. "So you're playing. I guess that makes sense."

He shakes his head and looks off into the distance. "No one wants to die," he adds to himself.

"Allies?" Harry asks.

Fred looks back at him and smiles, mirthless. "Allies, young Potter."

They shake on it.

* * *

"Susan Bones wants to ally with you," Snape says as soon as Harry slips into his suite.

Harry blinks, startled.

"So you're amenable," Snape surmises.

"It can't hurt," Harry says. "What are the odds of us surviving to the final two anyway?"

"You're not allying with Weasley? How sad, and here Burbage was telling me such wonderful things."

"Final three, then," Harry says, annoyed. "I'll ally with Susan if she agrees to ally with Fred."

Snape smirks.

"... I'm sure Fred will be fine with allying with her," Harry adds, though he feels suddenly uncertain.

"That boy is a bleeding heart," Snape agrees.

"Can we please do knife practice now," Harry mutters; he's a bit surprised when Snape complies.

* * *

"My sister is waiting for me, of course," Delacour says, pouting for the cameras. "I cannot let her down any more than I can let the wonderful, _beautiful_ citizens of the Capitol down."

The crowd cheers, more than a few shouts of 'Fleur' floating up from the audience.

"Naturally, my dear!" the interviewer, Gilderoy Lockhart, agrees. "And someone as stunning as you will be enthralling to watch and cheer for!"

Delacour's smile is flawless, but her eyes, magnified many times on the screen, might as well be chipped from ice.

Harry wonders if any of the Capitol citizens notice.

* * *

"Of course, I'm behind the concept of fair play one hundred percent," Diggory says, leaning forward intently.

Lockhart nods earnestly. "Absolutely, Cedric! That kind of integrity is what we love to see from District One, right, folks?!"

Cheering greets his words. Harry doesn't roll his eyes; maybe Diggory is as principled as he's claiming here - sure, there was his behaviour during training too - but promises before the arena mean nothing.

And that bullshit about the Capitol loving integrity... They'll love when Diggory breaks his principles and they can think, oh those District people, they're such savages.

* * *

"I have never lost anything," Krum says. "I compete in sports back home. My team always wins. _I _always win. I don't expect that to change here."

"Well, you were awarded the highest score this year! An eleven! It's not every year we see one if those," Lockhart enthuses.

"There is room for improvement. It isn't a twelve," Krum says. He smiles, showing too many teeth. "I will show you how I earned my eleven in the arena."

While he isn't conventionally attractive like Delacour and Diggory, Krum has strong features and, of course, the best score. He's a crowd favourite too.

* * *

"So. Harry Potter," Lockhart purrs. "You're the first volunteer District Six has ever seen! What you did was admirable, there's no denying that, but I have to ask: why _did_ you do it, dear boy?"

Harry looks down at his hands for a few seconds, then glances out at the audience. "Well..." He turns back to Lockhart. "I volunteered for my cousin. I live with my aunt and uncle, but I've always known they don't want me. Dudley pushes me around and his parents only encourage him. They hate me."

Harry looks down at his lap again. "So I knew if their precious son was sent here for the Games and I could have taken his place, they'd make my life even more miserable than it already was."

"Harry-" Lockhart looks genuinely anguished, and Harry doesn't think he imagines the few pained, disbelieving cries his words earn.

"But this way," Harry says quickly, "I have a chance for a better life, right? If I win, I can go live in the Victor's Village and I won't have to see them ever again."

The buzzer goes off just as he finishes speaking, and while the reaction isn't as strong as it was for some of the Careers, it's heartening nonetheless.

Lockhart grabs his hand when Harry stands and raises it above his head.

Harry smiles weakly, searching for Snape in the crowd.

His mentor nods once in acknowledgement.

* * *

"I told my family I'd do my best," Susan says.

"That's right. Your aunt got a four the year she won too," Lockhart says, smiling.

"Yeah," Susan agrees. "She did."

They don't mention that Amelia Bones was eighteen when she was reaped, strong and dexterous from years of working in the textile factories. Susan's comparatively pampered life has not done anything to prepare her for the Hunger Games.

* * *

"And you know," Fred says conspiratorially, as the laughter from his opening joke dies down, "I made a bet of my own with the volunteers."

"Oh? Do tell!" Lockhart says.

"I bet that if I guessed their scores right, they'd let me go on the first day," Fred says with a grin.

Lockhart and the crowd gasp. "And did you guess correctly?"

"'Course I did," Fred agrees smugly. "Right, guys?" He glances back at the Careers, smirking.

Diggory smiles good-naturedly and nods, as if to say 'what can you do?'

"There you have it," Fred concludes, leaning back as if he hasn't a care in the world, as if he isn't going into the arena tomorrow, as if he hasn't just painted an even bigger target on his back. "I promise I won't let it go to waste." He winks at the crowd, who cheers wildly.

* * *

"Are you sure you can trust that boy?" Snape asks when they're sequestered in his suite once again.

"Yes," Harry says calmly.

Snape gives him a searching look, then shakes his head. "It's your life," is all he says.

"It's not like anyone will care if I die in there," Harry remarks. "I don't have any friends, Dudley made sure of that. And what family I do have left despises me, especially after what I said in the interview."

"None of which was untrue," Snape says. "... Boy. If you don't make it back, I'll make their lives miserable."

Harry blinks in surprise, touched in spite of himself. "And if I do come back?"

"You're competent enough to manage it yourself," Snape says, smirking.

"Thanks, sir," Harry says, almost entirely in earnest.

Snape rolls his eyes as he takes another sip of his omnipresent alcohol. "Don't get cocky."

"You knew my mother," Harry says, since this is his last chance. "Will you tell me about her?"

Snape sneers at his nearly empty glass, his mood shifting just like that. "Come back from the arena alive and we'll see, boy."

Harry grits his teeth, but he knows Severus is watching him from behind that curtain of greasy hair. "You'll tell me about her if I come back."

Snape tilts his head, looking at Harry full on for the first time.

"I suppose I must," he says, which Harry figures is as good as he's going to get.

* * *

"The uniform looks pretty standard," Tonks says, eyeing it critically. "Lightweight fabric, warm but not insulated. And they did snow last year. Not waterproof, apart from the jacket."

Harry glances at himself in the full length mirror. The uniform fits him perfectly, a luxury he's come to enjoy since entering the Capitol. The jacket's a dark grey with red and gold trim, not too flashy. The shirt beneath is the same bright shade of red, and the trousers are black, with several useful pockets. Sturdy shoes, grey with red soles, complete the ensemble.

"Not bad," Harry says, zipping the jacket up most of the way.

They sit down on the couch, Harry sipping at some water. It's the first thing he'll need once he gets up there, but he doesn't want to drink too much either.

Tonks takes his free hand, twining their fingers together, and only then does Harry realize he's shaking.

"Just remember the strategy we discussed," she says kindly, and doesn't remark upon the pressure Harry must be putting on her hand from how hard his grip is.

"Attention, tributes, attention," the announcer, Lucius Malfoy, says over the intercom. "You will be sent up in two minutes."

Harry takes another sip of water and stands.

Tonks hugs him for a few moments, too briefly for him to overcome his shock and decide whether to return her embrace or not.

"Good luck," she whispers, her smile shaky.

"Th-" His voice cracks and he clears his throat. "Thanks."

He steps onto the platform, clenching his hands into fists to still them.

The last thing he sees before the platform rises is Tonks wiping her eyes, still smiling bravely for his sake.


End file.
